This is not heartbreaking. My heart is not broken. I am hollowed out. I am hollowed out and pouring in rage and fear and futility in equal measure, to drink my own cocktail with blood and salt around the rim. It's terrible and packs a punch, one sip and I'm already gone. It will knock you on your ass and so will I, because this drink is not called the heartbreaker, it is the Render, the impetus and the result all in one. I am drunk and stupid but not on tragedy. Tragedy is the red-limned lime on this sweating rim. Tragedy's a garnish that comes with the glass. It is the unknowable arc of happenstance. But I did not take my hollow self to make a drink in tragedy. I took my hollow self to a bar, a bar built and bustling on hollow people to which I am now alike, where we all sit and drink and daydream about burning this place to the ground. No, I am not heartbroken. Heartbreak is for lovers lost. Not for this.
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Alex just read your Day 2. I’ll read it a time or two more before commenting . Tragedy is tragedy, there are so many different kinds. All painful. The big question is will you be a Phoenix and rise from the ashes?
I love you. Gma
Hi Grandma! That’s fair, you’re correct that tragedy does come in all shapes and sizes, and how we respond to that tragedy is often as important as the event itself. I just don’t think the connotations of a tragedy fit mass shootings anymore, especially given the typical response to such events. Love you, thanks for reading and taking the time to think about this with me!